Made of Scars
by Starbuck0322
Summary: A continuation of one of my previous stories "IF BY CHANCE".   It is months after where we left off in IF BY CHANCE, and a late night wandering leads Gillian to discover Cal has been keeping something from her.
1. Darkness Deep

_**A/N:** _

_This story is a continuation of one of my previous stories entitled "If By Chance"._

_This story involves many of the same characters. It is not another crime/hurt comfort story, and is therefore different in nature. _

_(I'm currently trying to work on another one of those)  
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_This story will not work as a stand alone, so if you haven't read "If By Chance", chances are you will be quite confuzzled. (yes... I said confuzzled__.)__  
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><p><strong>Made of Scars<strong>

_by Starbuck0322_**  
><strong>

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><p><em>Darkness Deep<em>

* * *

><p>Hands tightened around Gillian Foster's throat, pushed forcefully down upon her as she tried to catch her breath, tried to open her eyes. She was greeted with only darkness. A black canvased bag caved around her head. It sucked into her mouth as she parted her lips and tried to breathe.<p>

Finally she came to, opened her eyes fully as she stirred, pulled her legs up to her chest. The bed's comforter lay in a ball at the end of the bed, threatened to fall to the floor, and she frantically reached to grab it, covering her and the body beside her.

She gasped as the sweat clung to her body, and she shivered and begged the blanket over her to give her comfort.

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, to the blinking digital clock beside her that read _1:03_. We must have lost power, she thought. Surely it had to be later than that.

Her heart beat loud within her chest and she willed it to keep calm. She shut her eyes as she focused on her thready breath. She willed the images, the darkness, to escape her, to keep from her mind so she could once again drift off into a peaceful slumber.

But the image of the darkness began to come back to her and she opened her eyes fully, silently cursed the night for being so long.

Beside her, Cal Lightman dreamed soundlessly, and she lifted herself on her elbow carefully to watch him sleep. His face remained free from lines, and she sighed softly, wished she could join him in the pleasantries he was experiencing.

A night without terror, without the shaking fear she fought to be devoid of.

She slowly rolled from the sheets and stood, fully aware that her night's sleep was finished, that the next hours would have to be spent in solitude, until the house was full of life again, full of light and love.

The sweat cooled on her body even as the images faded slowly from sight, and she reached to the floor to pick up her discarded t-shirt; Cal's baggy black t-shirt that she had claimed as her own. She softly padded across the floor, mindful of every rise and fall, of the change of flooring, of carpet and hardwood, of every piece of furniture in her way. She zigged her way towards his dresser drawers and opened one that housed her clothing; a space he had given up for her, to help this feel like home.

She took a pair of underwear from the drawer, quickly put them on and picked her robe from the chair by the door.

She opened the door and left Cal to his dreams.

The hall was dark, but the carpeting helped her to keep her early morning wandering a secret. She looked down the hall to Emily's room and found the room aglow with a soft light. She crept towards her door and peered inside.

Emily was curled on her bed. The room was cool, the window open. A small desk lamp was left on. Emily's laptop's screensaver paraded through a selection of photos. Bright, shiny faces, filled with hope and friendship looked back at Gillian as she softly tip-toed toward the desk to turn off the light.

She edged toward Emily and lifted her duvet over her shoulders. It was a small comfort, but if helped Gillian to feel she belonged.

Emily, like her father, dreamt peacefully, face void of any trauma or struggle. She could dream of boys, and parties, and a future filled with hope. Of new experiences. Of exploring the world in front of her.

Gillian found the stairs in the darkness and inched down to reach the main floor. Work would be her only comfort tonight, she thought as she crept toward the kitchen and opened the fridge door.

She would heat some milk, find her laptop, and look over the month's budget. Surely that would be enough to pass the time, before the house would be full of happy thoughts, and laughter, and the bickering of father and daughter which she had grown fond of in these past few months.

She turned on the light over the sink and pulled a pot quietly from the kitchen drawers. The burner clicked and engulfed the pot in flame and she turned it down low and drew a wooden spoon from a container on the counter.

The moon was bright in these early morning hours, and Gillian looked up from her work to see it reflecting out over the autumn grass, the fallen leaves covered in a light dusting of frost. It felt like it had only been a short time ago that the ground had been covered in a deep snow, when their world was full of cold and torture.

She inhaled deeply. She could barely remember the heat of summer. The humidity the dense city had offered.

Had it been a dream.

And now the snow was coming again. The horrid thick white blanket. The silence of the city.

Those trees...

That cabin...

And a cold cement floor against her bruised cheek.

She blinked and sighed again, looked down to the white liquid rapidly bubbling in front of her.

"Shit," she cursed as she took it from the heat and poured some quickly into a mug. She had made a mess of this simple task but it would have to do.

Her laptop was as she had left it the night before; closed, sitting on the dining room table. She looked down at the seat in front of her, thought about sitting there for hours before it was time for Cal to get up. When she could make him some tea, and conjure up a reason for leaving bed early.

She would need a different environment, she decided. Something to make her feel more at ease and not so alone in this big house, with its big windows, and rolling lawn. So unlike her city condominium.

She picked the laptop from the table and with her mug in the other hand, headed for Cal's study, where she was sure to curl up with the month's budget and figures.

The room smelled of books, of age, of intellect. It was her favourite space in his house, with its large window which perfectly framed the lone large oak tree which grew behind his house. The room was surrounded in mahogany wood panelling and large Victorian area rugs overlapped each other on the floor. A large, red velvet daybed was situated in front of the large paned window. Several tall bookcases filled in the spaces where they could, collected dust on shelves much higher than she could reach. A small folding desk and chair were angled into one corner which provided a nice view out the window.

She smiled as she looked to her favourite corner, to her favourite high-backed, over-sized chair with over-sized ottoman. It was a more modern piece for the room, and was offset by a Victorian lamp with a tulip shade made with crystal beading and lace.

She curled up onto the welcoming seat, and draped a nearby blanket over her legs.

She sat and typed for what felt like hours, but when she looked up to the large clock beside her on a nearby bookcase, she found to her dismay that only forty-five minutes had passed.

She placed the laptop on a table to her left and crawled out from beneath the blanket to tread lightly across the floor. She sat at Cal's desk.

He barely used this desk, preferring to work in the kitchen, or the dining room, or late at night seated in bed, with Gillian reading beside him. The desk instead housed many treasures for her in the form of notes and photos, and often Gillian would escape in secret, and rummage through the small nooks and crannies.

She lowered the desk's table and quietly propped it up with the sliding support peg, careful to keep her search a secret from the house. Small little cubbies were built into the desk and she instantly went to a familiar hold, and picked up the old photographs that she had now engrained in her memory.

Photos of Cal as a young boy. His mother. A rare photo of his father with its edges worn and faded. A photo of Emily as a newborn held carefully in her father's arms.

He looked up at Gillian with a face that showed happiness, joy, and a young unbridled fear. He almost looked up at the photographer looking for instructions of what he was supposed to do next.

It was one of her favourite photos. A rare glimpse that the "always two-steps ahead" Cal Lightman, might not know all of what life had in store. Even he had a fear of the unknown.

She placed the photos back in their place, careful to keep the order intact, and continued on her search. All seemed as it had been the last time she had taken up this little adventure through the mind of Cal Lightman. All but for one nook stuck out to Gillian as new and unexplored.

She reached forward and picked up a manilla envelope, wrapped around what looked to be a stack of envelopes. She unwrapped the package, removed the rubber band holding it together.

Several long white envelopes tumbled onto the table now free of their restraints. She flipped one over and the girlish smile on her face dissolved into confusion. She picked it up and held it closer to her face. The envelope was addressed to her at _The Lightman Group_. She looked to where the return address would be, saw it blank, and flipped the envelope in her hands. Anger forced its way across her brow as she made out the tiny scrawl.

The door to the room creaked slightly, and she turned to look behind her. Cal stood in the doorway and looked on Gillian, to the envelopes gripped in her hands.

He tried his best to ignore the scene he had walked in on, fully aware of the reason behind the glare she shot him. He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Gill? It's early. Come to bed."

She stood slowly and looked down to the envelopes in her hand. She displayed them in front of her, fanned them out towards him.

"Tell me you didn't," was all she said.


	2. The Letters

_The Letters_

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><p>"Tell me, you didn't," she repeated and she took a step back taken by the frustration that pounded through her temple. She felt light-headed, and she blinked back the stars as they appeared. Clearly she was exhausted.<p>

"Gillian," he began.

"Tell me you didn't do this." She could feel the frustration cooking within her, heating her skin, and it forced her forward. "These were meant for me, Cal. You had no right!" Her voice was rising now and it shook weakly in the early morning hour, echoed past him into the adjoining room.

"Shh," he begged. "Em's still sleeping."

She opened her mouth and released a small squeak. She had more, she was sure of that.

He closed the distance between them and cocked his head towards her. "I did what I felt was best, Gillian. Given the situation."

She scoffed at the use of her name and he narrowed his eyes on her, aware he had offended her by the subtle formality.

"You had no right," she spat low, released the words as a growl from the back of her throat. "These were meant for _me_."

"I did it for your own good."

"My own good?"

"That guy did a number on you; one that I've never seen before. I didn't want you falling into his trap."

"What trap? Nik had nothing to do with what happened to me. It was his brother, and you damn well know that."

"You don't need this..."

"Can I decide what's right for me?" she released through clenched teeth. "You're treating me as if I am still the victim. How do you expect me to work past this if-"

"He was a part of it, Gill." He reached out to take her elbows within his hands but she sidestepped away from him. He turned, watched her walk towards the door. He lowered his voice. "They took you from me."

She scoffed and nodded her head as she paced. "And there it is." She lifted the envelopes and shook them at him. "This is about you then?"

"You know, it isn't."

"No, Cal. I'm afraid it is," she said. Her anger was truly taking control now. She felt wild in this new state of mind, so unlike her usual calm demeanour. "This is you taking control. This is you smothering me."

He uncrossed his arms and held them out, palms open towards her. "So what if it is," he said. "Somebody has to."

A redness had risen on her chest, her neck and face, filling in the spaces, diminishing her freckles. She scowled, placed a hand to her chest. "This is my life, Cal. Not yours."

"No," he replied calmly. "It's ours."

Her hands balled into fists by her side. "You know what? To hell with your smothering, Cal," she spat. "It never looked good on you anyways." She turned to leave.

"So you'll just walk away then, Gill." He waited for her to turn back to him. "Who was the one who found you, eh?" he hollered. The emotion shook him. "I'm right here, Gillian. I always have been."

Her brow stitched together. "Is that what this is about?" She shook her head. "This is you playing hero?" He grew silent suddenly and his eyes fell away from her face. She titled her head, forced him to look at her. "I don't need a goddamn hero, Cal."

But Cal remained silent, frozen as he starred past her. Her chest heaved as Gillian turned behind her, found Emily standing in the doorway.

"What's going on?" Emily asked groggily. She was dressed in her pyjamas and housecoat, greying white bunny slippers on her feet.

"Sorry, Em," Gillian said quickly gathering herself. She blinked away her tears and inhaled shakily.

She turned back to Cal who lifted his eyes to her face. "I'm going home," she said quietly, barely releasing her words.

"What?" Emily gasped as Gillian stormed past her.

As she turned the corner and began to ascend the stairs, she heard Emily's voice echo behind her. "Dad! What have you done now?"

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><p>The sun was beginning to rise as Gillian collected her things. A small luggage bag in front of her, she carelessly tossed items into it.<p>

She had dressed hastily, wanting nothing more than to be in her own home where she could find a welcomed silence. A silence to drown out the frustration in her mind.

"Don't go."

Emily stood in the doorway in the filtered light from the hallway.

"He loves you, you know?" Emily continued, low and soft. She had not waited for Gillian to lift her head. "Whatever he did, he did it out of love."

"Your father has always had a funny way of showing he loves me, Emily." She aggressively tossed another shirt into her bag. "I suppose I'm growing tired of the games."

"I don't want you to go."

Gillian let the clothing fall from her hands, and she stepped across the room to meet Emily at the door. She took the girl into a tight embrace, placed a hand to the back of her curly head. "I'm sorry, Emily," she sighed. "I need to go home for a while. I need to be with my thoughts. Clear my head."

"I need you here."

She lifted away from Emily. "I'm sorry," she said. She leant forward to place her chin to Emily's forehead. "I don't want to put you in the middle of this, Emily, but your father..."

"It's too late?"

"I think we need a timeout."

"But I love having you here."

She leant back as Emily's sorrowed eyes looked up at her. "I know." She tried to offer a reassuring smile. "And I love being here...but..."

"Just not now?"

Gillian sighed. "Not now."

Emily rolled her eyes. "Dad always has a way of screwing things up."

Gillian smiled warmly at Emily; her best attempt to calm her. "He is good at that, isn't he?"

Emily and Gillian laughed together as they pulled from their hug. Gillian picked Emily's hair from her shoulders and gathered it in her hands. She let it drape down Emily's back.

Emily looked up at Gillian. "Take me with you?"

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><p>Gillian reached the bottom of the stairs to find Cal standing in his kitchen, hands shoved deep within his pockets.<p>

"Don't go, Gill," he urged quietly.

But Gillian turned from him and headed towards the front door.

"This is silly, Gillian." He raised his voice. "Stay."

She kept her back to him, shoved her feet into her clogs and placed her bags in one hand so she could open the door.

She could hear him call her name again as she closed the heavy wood door behind her, but she kept walking, putting one heavy independent foot in front of the other.

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><p>She placed her house key into the tumbler, turned it, and let her front door open to its fullest. There was the familiar creak, the familiar thud as her door hit against the wall. She stood for a moment, staring into the emptiness that awaited her.<p>

There would be no laughter in the warm kitchen. No arguments. No late night cuddling. No familiar hand to her lower back as she stirred the sauce warming on the stove.

She threw her bags to the floor in front of her and stepped across the threshold, closing the door behind her.

Her keys made a clinking noise as they hit the glass bowl to her right, and she freed her feet from her clogs, leaving her bags behind.

It had been weeks since she had walked these halls, stepped into the kitchen to clear the remaining perishable items from her fridge. Weeks since Cal had taken her in a heated embrace, pushed her up against her counter, to run his hands over her body. Weeks since their clothing had found its way to the floor, so he could take her on her kitchen table. It had been weeks since her cries of ecstasy had filled this room.

She threw her purse to the table and turned to open her fridge door, found it as she had left it. A jar of mayonnaise, a jar of baby dill pickles and some ketchup. She would have to make a run to the grocery store.

She made her way to her bedroom, found her sheets untucked, pillows misaligned. She picked a pillow from the floor, held it to her chest. She inhaled. It still smelled like him, and his musk instantly filled her senses with longing. Her knees shook, begged her to leave, to get in her car, and drive the distance back to him.

So she sat and pulled the pillow case from the pillow instead.

She threw them to the floor and turned behind her to rip the sheets from the mattress. The discarded bedsheets pooled at her feet and she picked them up, balled them into her arms. She did her best not to inhale their mingled scent, the ecstasy, and release.

She headed down her hall, entering her laundry room and threw her sheets into her washer. She turned dials and watched as the water began to pool. She ripped off her shirt and threw it in with the bedsheets, drew in a deep breath and discarded the remainder of her clothing, adding them to the water as well. She reached for her detergent and uncapped it. Bringing it to her nose, she inhaled deeply. She smiled; it was a scent all her own. She dumped the detergent in generously, and walked from the room.

She walked naked through her house, felt the walls as she reentered her kitchen. Her purse had opened on the table and several white envelopes were peeking through the opened zipper. She inhaled and approached the table, her heart hammering in her chest.

What was she so afraid of?

She walked around the table, reached out with a shaking hand and pulled back. Wine, she thought to herself. Wine would do the trick. She checked the clock, and reasoned with herself that it was too early for wine.

So she made her way to her living room, knelt on her high-pile carpeting, and opened the door of her end table. It was never too early, or too late, for scotch.

A heavy crystal glass in hand, she made her way back to her bedroom, longed for the shower that was calling out to her.

The heat was welcoming on her skin, and she watched as the water trailed her breasts, ran down her stomach. She closed her eyes, and threw her head into the water. She opened her mouth and let the water trail her lips.

It had been awhile since she had been allowed to shower alone. Cal had always seemed to run when he heard the water running, and she relished in the memory of his hands, how he would cup her, and hold her close to him. She would be quiet in those moments; listening to the water run, feeling his heart beat against her back. It was peaceful. It felt like home.

She blinked and groaned, and her voice echoed against the tile, hitting her heavily, making her feel frighteningly alone.

Had she overreacted, she wondered and she shook her head, trailed her hands down the front of her body.

She had been alone for years and had been with them for such a short time. She could handle this. She could handle being... alone.

Stand your ground, she told herself as she wrapped herself in a towel, ran her fingers through her wet hair. She opened the mirrored vanity in front of her.

A can of shaving gel. A man's razor. Musk.

She closed the vanity, forgot that she had intended to take an Advil, and left her en-suite.

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><p>Her second glass of Scotch in hand, dressed in baggy sweats with her hair pulled back, she looked on her kitchen table, to the envelopes that loomed before her.<p>

She placed the glass down, reached forward and fingered the corner of one envelope. She picked it up, looked down at the unfamiliar scrawl, the precision, the darkening of the pen as it spelled out her name. Clearly he had written over her name a few times, thickening the ink, bolding it for the postman to read.

_**Dr. Gillian Foster**_

A buzzing was heard from her laundry room, so she threw the envelope back to the table and left her curiosity behind.

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><p>Sweaty from her afternoon sleep, she rolled within the crisp linens to look on her clock. Slowly, the day was passing before her.<p>

She rubbed her eyes and rose from her bed. She shuffled her feet forward into her slippers and groggily walked down her hall.

The scotch, the envelopes, just as she had left them, so she picked them up and walked to her living room. She curled up in the afternoon sun and tucked her feet under her, pulling the light throw over her legs.

She ripped open the first white envelope.

_Dear Dr. Foster:  
><em>

_I want to take this time to thank you for all your help in this difficult time for me. I know its been tough for you to see me, but I wouldn't have been able to get through it without you.  
><em>

_It kills me to think of how this __ has affected you. I'm happy I followed through on my promise, and got you home.  
><em>

_I just wanted to let you know that I'm settled here now. As best I can be I guess. I have a cell mate. We're stacked like sardines in this place.  
><em>

_What they show on TV is true, I guess. This place is a pecking order, and I can already see the groupings of inmates. I'm trying my best to find one I can feel safe in._

_I hope I can see you again, if only to tell you this in person._

_Wishing you all the best,  
>Nik<em>

She held the paper in her hands, rubbed her thumb over Nik's name. She opened another.

_Dear Dr. Foster:_

_I got into my first yard fight this week. It didn't take long._

_Nothing to write home about, I guess, but I took on a guy three times my size. He was big! __... I was told it was something I had to do. I've seen other fights break out. It seems to be the best entertainment we get._

_They had confined me for a day. They finally allowed me to have paper and pen again._

_I managed a few scrapes on my knuckles and a bruised eye. Makes me look tough, I guess._

_You know of everything out there, I miss a big juicy hamburger the most. Loaded with mayo and lettuce and tomato. A large fry. You know its bad for you, but you do it anyway. I miss that stuff._

_I hope you don't mind me writing you. I know its only been a few days since my last letter. But without a friend out there, its nice to know at least this is reaching someone._

_I hope everything is well with you. You and Dr. Lightman. Tell him I say hi._

_All the best,  
>Nik<em>

She flicked the paper in her fingers, carefully folding it at the creases and picked up the next.

_Gillian,_

_It's been a few weeks now since my last letter, and I wanted to send you a line, to let you know how I was doing._

_You must be settled by now, well on the road to recovery. You must be handling it well. I could see that in you, you know. The fighter. You're tough as nails._

_There is so much time to reflect on everything in here. I'm still carrying so much hate for my actions, for my brother, for what we put you through. And sometimes in my dreams I wake up in a sweat, the image of your scared face is burned in my mind._

_I'm so sorry, Gillian. More than you can imagine. I hope you know that. Know that I feel like I should have done so much more. Why couldn't I have stood up to him? Why was I such a chicken?_

_I miss you._

_I'm sorry. My emotions have been getting the better of me lately. But its true, I do miss you. I think I just want to see that you're okay, that you're moving on. It would help me sleep at night to know that you're okay. That you're getting all you need._

_I can only hope that you're being supported. They've appointment me therapy of sorts, which is one good thing with this. I can only assume you had something to do with this. They tell me Dr. Gorman is one of the best in his field. _

_I have been reflecting a lot. I need some way to move past this._

_Please send me word that you're okay. Send me something. Even if it is a few words. It will mean the world to me. To know you're okay.  
>-Nik<em>

Her heart sank as she read on, as she flicked through the remainder of the envelopes. Letter after letter, page after page of him pouring his heart out to her, on what would never reach her.

_...Send me something._

_...I need to know you're okay._

_...It's been weeks..._

_It's been months..._

_I'm so sorry, Gillian..._

_Please send something... anything..._

_Please visit...I'm so lonely._

She took her glass in her hand, downed the liquid as quickly as she could. The final envelope lay on her lap and she turned it in her hand as she put her glass down.

The ink for the return address on the back was blotchy, and it ran together, veined throughout the slight ridges in the paper. She looked closer, saw the fold lift for her. The envelope had previously been opened. Evidence of the steam that had lifted the glue was noticeable.

She sighed and reached inside, unfolded the paper and took a deep breath.

_Gill..._

_Dr. Gorman has told me that I should let this die. That I should leave you alone as you have your own recovery to do. He says this should be my last letter._

_Dr. Gorman tells me that the last part of my recovery will have to be made alone. He promises to set me up with a job, a housing development where I can work._

_They say I'm slated for early release. Just as we were expecting._

_I haven't had any more fights. I am trying to be on my best behavior. If only to make you proud of me._

_When I can't sleep at night, I think about our last time together, and the effort you made to see me, even after all we did to you. I still remember your smile. The promise you made me. The promise you came through on. I remember that hug, how you told me it was going to be okay. I remember the way your hair smelled._

_It won't be long now. Just a few more months._

_It was nice to think that I had a friend out there thinking of me. It helped me so much. And I don't hold it against you for not writing back, for not seeing me. You have already been through so much. I don't blame you for walking away._

_I'm truly sorry for all your pain and I'm sorry if my writing has made you uncomfortable. I'll leave you alone now._

_Maybe, if I'm lucky, our paths will cross again one day. If only to see you smile._

_Take care,  
>N<em>

Gillian let the letter fall to her lap and she buried her face in her hands.


End file.
